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There would be no escape now.

Emilia gripped the steering wheel as she watched the Scania truck indicate left before executing a long, lazy turn into the freight lane at Southampton docks.

Her prey was in the port system and once he’d passed the initial barriers, there would be no way out.

He would have police and border officials in front of him and behind him dozens of carefully concealed officers fanning out to cut off his retreat.

He would be caught like a rat in a trap.

Slowing her Corsa, Emilia dawdled at the entrance, aware that a hatchback turning into the freight channel would inevitably attract attention.

She was not concerned for herself, she could deal with the immigration staff, but she was worried about alerting her nemesis to her presence, before he’d passed the threshold into the port proper.

She was a little concerned that he might already have clocked her, the covering traffic accelerating past his truck on an open patch of road a mile or so before the docks.

The sudden braking of his lorry had almost propelled her into the back of him, Emilia half-convinced that she’d clocked her quarry’s concerned face in one of the side mirrors.

Panicked, she’d eased off on the gas, her mind frantically role-playing alternative endgames if the Dutchman changed course.

Mercifully, progress thereafter had been smooth and uneventful, Emilia hanging back before happily merging with passenger and freight traffic as they approached the docks.

Now the chase was nearly over. Crawling past the entry to the freight terminal, Emilia was pleased to see the man she now knew to be Matthijs Visser chatting amiably with the Border Force official, who wore a broad smile as he confirmed the haulier’s passage and checked his passport.

Emilia took in the scene, savouring the moment.

For years, she’d wondered who her nemesis was and now, following her phone call with the police, she had her answer.

Whether Matthijs Visser was his real name or not, Emilia couldn’t be sure, but it felt good to have something to call her attacker, a label which made him feel real, tangible, fallible.

The man himself seemed supremely relaxed today, smiling broadly as the port official waved him through.

And then he was gone, the lorry picking up speed as it roared away from the booth.

So much the better, Emilia thought to herself, he’ll be in handcuffs quicker that way.

It had been a long journey to this point for her, physically, emotionally, psychologically, but it was nearly at an end.

Soon he would be behind bars where he belonged, receiving the same pitiless treatment he’d meted out to her father.

He would rage, he would protest, but most of all he would suffer , his liberty taken from him, his future snuffed out.

How Emilia would enjoy that, how she would revel in her triumph.

He had won the early rounds, causing her enormous pain and hardship, but she had landed the final blow. And how did the saying go?

She who laughs last, laughs longest.